


That Mouth

by applecore



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: Belly Kink, F/F, Kissing, Post-Canon, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-01-26 13:45:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21375097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecore/pseuds/applecore
Summary: There were pastries in the fridge. Rose brought out a cardboard carton of them. “No, no,” Daphne said. “Get ‘em all out. Tonight we celebrate, right?” She cracked a grin—heart-stopping, even brighter than it’d been at the pivotal, climactic moment inWhen in Paris. “Thirty-six fucking million dollars.”
Relationships: Daphne Kluger/Rose Weil
Comments: 9
Kudos: 64
Collections: Femslash Exchange 2019





	That Mouth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MsClueger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsClueger/gifts).

The cab pulled to a stop. “Home sweet home,” Daphne said, and climbed out, not quite steady. Rose followed, even though she was still foggy as to how she’d come to be invited to Daphne Kluger’s apartment. One moment she’d been sitting on the sofa in Debbie and Lou’s enormous industrial chic loft, agreeing with something Daphne was saying—Rose couldn’t have said what, too caught on the way Daphne’s lips formed the words—god, she really had been _very_ compelling in _The Almanac Writer’s Daughter_—

Anyway, Daphne had been saying something, and Rose had agreed, and now here Rose was, waiting for Daphne to remember the door combination into the building of her no doubt very exclusive flat on this very exclusive street. Daphne eventually did, muttering to herself. Rose followed behind, pointedly not looking at the behind she was following.

Oh, what the hell. Rose had kept her eyes to herself all through the dress design, the uncountable fittings, all of it. She’d been very good, and now she didn’t have to anymore, because the project was finished—the dress project, the jewelry-stealing project, take your pick. And it was a behind that deserved looking at.

Rose was torn from her admiration of its attributes and the very flattering fit of Daphne’s jeans by Daphne swinging open the door to a flat. “It’s this way,” she said, leading Rose past a living room with an entire wall of window looking out onto the Manhattan skyline, then past a kitchen that gleamed with chrome even in the dark. 

And then they’d arrived at Daphne’s closet, and Rose remembered at last what it was Daphne had been talking about, back at the loft—a Bazaza she’d liked so much she’d bought it after the event she’d worn it to, “Although obviously I can’t ever wear it again, can you imagine?”

Rose had murmured something polite about wanting to see it, and now here she was, seeing it. And it was quite striking: all refreshing blues and shocking crimsons, embroidered so heavily it took a moment to determine the color of the base farbic. It was all a bit intense for Rose’s tastes, like an Italian soda with too much syrup. Still, she could admire the handiwork and the detailing. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

“It better be, for what I spent on it,” Daphne grumbled, but Rose noticed how carefully Daphne returned it to the closet. And then Rose stood in Daphne’s bedroom, errand complete and twenty blocks from her own flat. Daphne squinted at her suspiciously for a moment, and then she said, “You want a drink or something?”

“Coffee?” Rose suggested. 

The kitchen gleamed even brighter with the lights on. “There’s pastries in the fridge,” Daphne said, poking at a coffee maker that looked like it’d have been at home on some kind of space ship.

There were pastries in the fridge. Rose brought out a cardboard carton of them. “No, no,” Daphne said. “Get ‘em all out. Tonight we celebrate, right?” She cracked a grin—heart-stopping, even brighter than it’d been at the pivotal, climactic moment in _When in Paris_. “Thirty-six fucking million dollars.”

“Wow,” Rose said faintly. For a few minutes, she’d forgotten. It’d take days for it to really sink in. Weeks, maybe.

“_And_ we looked gorgeous doing it,” Daphne said, with a grin that included Rose in the _we_. Daphe grabbed a pastry from the box—something flaky, with lots of fine layers—and lifted it high. “To us.”

Rose grabbed for a pastry of her own. It appeared to be a chocolate éclair. There was chocolate filling on her fingers now. “To us.”

They ended up on Daphne’s sofa, a boxy, gray, severe-looking modern thing, not Rose’s style at all. There wasn’t much about Daphne that _was_ Rose’s style, honestly, save Daphne herself. Rather than think about that, or about how distractingly close Daphne was sitting, Rose ate her pastries and drank her coffee and looked out at the night. 

That lasted about five minutes. It was rude not to look at Daphne when she talked, and Daphne loved talking, which was all right with Rose. It saved Rose from talking, which was generally a good idea, and anyway, there was still Daphne’s mouth to look at. 

“You’re such a great listener,” Daphne said, throwing Rose out of one of these reveries. “So many people, they want to, like, interrupt, you know?”

“Oh yes,” Rose agreed hurriedly.

When Daphne occasionally did fall silent, working on another pastry, she didn’t seem to expect Rose to make up the lack. That meant Rose could sip at her coffee and watch Daphne out of the corner of her eye. Daphne really loved pastries, apparently. She could demolish one in five bites, and she still hadn’t even smudged her lipstick. 

It was—distracting. Rose found herself wondering just many Daphne could eat in a sitting. How many had she eaten already? Surely not a _dozen_, yet the boxes seemed so much emptier than they’d been when Rose had opened them. “Why do you have all of these, anyway?” Rose asked.

“Leftover from a thing,” Daphne mumbled, mouth full. “They were going to _throw them away_.” Her eyebrows rose in horror. “What happened to reduce, reuse, recycle?”

Rose decided not to ask which of the Rs this was, the two of them stuffing themselves with baked goods in celebration for robbing a museum of—well, of more millions of dollars than Rose could calculate, just at the moment. It was late, she realized. It was quite late, and the coffee’s temporary buzz had already worn off, and what was she doing here, anyway? She ought to go home.

Her gaze drifted back to Daphne’s lips, contorting as she licked at a crumb beneath her teeth. Then the unthinkable happened—Daphne caught her at it. 

“Oh my god,” Daphne said. “You want to kiss me.”

Rose sat up hurriedly. The alarm she felt was not pretended. “I—what? I—”

“Oh my _god_. I could have sworn you were straight,” Daphne said, squinting at Rose as if she were something unexpected floating in Daphne’s coffee. Daphne made an incomprehensible gesture. “You’re so—floral.”

“Oh—oh?” 

Fortunately, Daphne didn’t seem to expect an answer; her expression was already turning into one of those smiles of hers, the smug kind that said she knew exactly what Rose were thinking. Rose certainly had no idea what Daphne was thinking, though, because it came as a total shock when Daphne carefully set the empty pastry box aside and straddled Rose in one smooth motion. Her face was inches from Rose, close enough that Rose could smell her coffee breath, could see where her lipstick had smudged at last.

And then it must have smudged more, because Daphne was kissing her. Daphne was _kissing her_. She was quite good at it. “You’re quite good at this,” Rose breathed. 

“Mmm.”

A terrible thought occurred. “You’re not—you’re not trying to frame _me_ for something.”

“Oh my god, do you ever stop talking?” Daphne said. Then she kissed Rose again before she could answer. Rose was fine with that.

Her hand swept along Rose’s ribs and came to rest on her breast, which Rose took as a sign that she, too, could touch. That arse felt as glorious under her hand as she’d dreamed it would, even through the denim of Daphe’s jeans. She gave it a cautious squeeze and was gratified by Daphne growling into her mouth, a sound that vibrated all through Rose and down between her legs. Oh god, she was going to fuck Daphne Kluger. And, with a firmness that seemed to come with the possession of thirty-six million dollars, Rose determined she was going to enjoy every minute of it.

On the heels of that thought, Daphne groaned. It did not sound like a groan of pleasure. Then she hiccuped, only barely hiding it behind her hand. For a moment she didn’t move, and then she said, “Water. I need water.”

Rose had been half in her lap—and what a luscious lap it was. Now Rose hurried into the kitchen and returned with a glass drawn from the fridge. Daphne took a gulp, muttered something about tap water, and drank some more. When the glass was empty, Daphne set it unsteadily on the coffee table, threw her arm over her eyes, and said, “Don’t hate me?”

“For what?” Rose asked, astonished.

“I think I ate too much,” Daphne said tremulously. As if to prove it, she belched loudly into her hand. “Ugh. I’m too full for sex.”

“Oh.” Disappointment swooped through Rose. When was she ever going to get another chance with Daphne Kluger? But no. She was a jewel thief now—far more successful a thief than she’d ever been a designer—and she wasn’t going to let this opportunity entirely pass her by. “Perhaps,” she said, laying her hand on Daphne’s stomach. “Perhaps I might help.”

Daphne peaked out from under her arm. After a moment she shrugged and lay back against the sofa. “Do your worst. But if I puke for the second time in two weeks, it’s going to be your fault.”

Rose had no intention of there being any puking on anyone’s part. “Let’s unfasten these first, shall we?” she said, going for the button of Daphne’s jeans. The waistband was quite tight; of course Daphne’s stomach was paining her. Rose unbuttoned them and unzipped the zipper.

“Oh god, that’s already better,” Daphne said. She wriggled, slouching further down the couch, which Rose chose to take as encouragement. The skin of Daphne’s stomach was silky-soft under her hand, deliciously warm. Rose wanted to kiss it. Instead she shifted on the sofa until she had a better angle and rubbed a gentle but firm path across the top of Daphne’s stomach.

“Hmm, you’re a little bit tight, yes,” Rose said. She’d soothed enough difficult customers of her work over the years; she knew the right noises to make. She also knew not to say “bloated,” though Daphne was, rather. Rose cast a baleful eye on the nearly empty pastry boxes. But she had her hands on Daphne; she wouldn’t waste the opportunity. She rubbed a circular motion over the swell of Daphne’s stomach, slight convex with baked goods. Daphne grunted, but she didn’t seem displeased.

Daphne really did have lovely skin. Rose was busy appreciating it, her mind only half on what she was doing, when Daphne’s stomach groaned loudly under her hand. “Oh my,” Rose said, startled, and then was deeply sorry she had, because Daphne was scrambling away from her down the sofa, face bright red. “It’s all right,” Rose said hastily, “it’s very natural—”

“I wasn’t expecting the kissing,” Daphne said, scowling at Rose, which seemed a bit unfair.

“Yes, you said—”

“No, I mean I was going to eat until I couldn’t move, and then I was going to sleep it off. I told you, I wanted to celebrate. I don’t get to eat what I want very often.”

Rose took this in. She turned it around and peered at it from a variety of angles. In her peripheral vision, Daphne sat very still and scowled very hard. Finally, cautiously, Rose said, “Would you like another éclair?”

Daphne shifted a little. “…sure.”

Rose reached for one of the boxes and held it out to Daphne. Daphne took a maple bar delicately between her fingers, and then she took an enormous bite out of it. “It’s so good,” she said, probably—it was hard to make out the words.

She might’ve been too full for sex, but she definitely wasn’t too full for more donuts, it turned out. This time, Rose let herself watch. As Daphne devoured a cream puff, moaning ecstatically, she realized that Daphne was putting on a bit of a show for her. This notion was confirmed when Daphne licked her lips and winked. Rose wouldn’t have said eating was something she was normally attracted to, but when it was Daphne’s mouth closing the end of an almond croissant, Daphne’s huge eyes sparkling at her as she chewed—all right, Rose could see the appeal.

“You know, you’ve got pretty good hands,” Daphne said casually. She lifted an eyebrow at Rose until Rose put two and two together. “I mean, if you’re into it.”

Rose was still not entirely sure she _was_ into it, but she very much liked the warmth of Daphne’s skin against her fingers and the satisfied grunts she made when Rose dug her palms a little harder into Daphne’s stomach. “Yeah, like that,” Daphne said. Rose liked the way Daphne flushed, too, each time her overworked stomach groaned.

Perhaps Rose did like it, then. She certainly liked how much Daphne liked it, how much she seemed to savor each bite (much too sweet, in Rose’s opinion, but to each her own), how that flush colored her cheeks. Perhaps it was the combination of all those things that made the slow-rising swell under her hand feel erotic, or perhaps it was how each bite was clearly an effort now. Daphne’s hand joined Rose’s, working the taut flesh of her stomach while Daphne squeezed her eyes shut in ecstatic pain.

“Oh god,” Daphne said, letting her head fall back against the arm of the sofa. “Oh my god.” Her hand drifted down, past her swollen stomach and between her legs.

“Too full for sex?” Rose said, tartly.

Daphne peeked one eye open. “No, just too full not to be embarrassing about it.” She shrugged, too casual. “Most people would think it’s weird, you know.”

“We all have our own oddities,” Rose said in what she hoped was a reassuring tone.

“God, right? People are so weird,” Daphne said, like she was sharing a secret.

It came to Rose that Daphne was ridiculous. She was extremely attractive, but ridiculous. Rose felt a peculiar, warm fondness as she realized it. “Allow me,” she said, pushing Daphne’s hand carefully to one side, and putting her own fingers where Daphne’s had been. Daphne shivered at her touch. She was quite wet as Rose carefully slid a finger into her; she was deliciously hot, slippery with desire. The proof of it was slick between Rose’s fingers. Rose stroked Daphne’s clit and worked her fingers in and out of her.

Daphne came around Rose’s fingers with a groan that seemed pained towards the end. She went boneless all at once, draped along the sofa. After a moment she grimaced and pressed her palm to her stomach. At this angle the swell of it was even more clear. It was painful to look at. “Ow,” Daphne said.

“Can I get you anything? Water, a tablet?”

“No, that’s okay.” Daphne struggled slowly upright, her stomach cradled in her hand as if it were very tender. 

The encounter was over, Rose realized. It was hardly what she’d have expected when the kissing began, but then she hadn’t expected the kissing, either, and meanwhile she still had Daphne’s scent coating her fingers. She’d have to find something to wipe them on. “I’ll just let myself out, shall I?”

“Hey, no,” Daphne said, eyes popping open. “I’m not good for much more tonight, sorry. But, morning sex?” Her eyebrows rose hopefully—artfully, Rose supposed. Daphne was rather practiced at persuading people.

Well, if Rose wanted to be persuaded, what was the harm in that? “Is there a spare toothbrush, perhaps?” she asked. She was rewarded with that trademark Daphne Kluger smile, all teeth and lipstick (smudged) and huge brown eyes.

Suddenly, Rose remembered: she’d stolen thirty-six million dollars. With that thought to warm her, she followed Daphne and her gorgeous, squeezable arse down the hall.

END


End file.
